When she reaches a turf bank commanding the same view as the window, she arranges her instrument upon her knees, and with something of restraint in her manner gently touches the chords.
Then, as if alarmed at the sound she has produced, she glances anxiously around her, apparently fearful of being overheard.

Her large, dark, lustrous eyes have in them an expression of apprehension; her delicate lips are half parted; a sudden flush rises in her soft, olive complexion as she examines every corner of the garden.

Having completed her survey without discovering any cause for the suspicions she seems to entertain, she again employs herself over her instrument.
Once more she strikes the chords, and now with a bolder hand.

The notes she produces resolve themselves into a wild, plaintive, irregular melody, alternately rising and sinking, as if swayed by the fickle influence of a summer wind.

These sounds are soon harmoniously augmented by the young minstrel's voice, which is calm, still, and mellow, and adapts itself with exquisite ingenuity to every arbitrary variation in the tone of the accompaniment.